The Narrows(77)
It’s like f*cking Armageddon, he thought, chuckling.
Ahead of him, the Civic’s taillights swerved right, leaving smeary black skids on the pavement in the wake of their sudden movement. For one second, Ricky thought Donald Larrabee was about to drive his goddamn car down the embankment and into the Narrows. But then Larrabee overcorrected and swerved left.
At this point, it was clear that Larrabee was no longer in control of the vehicle. Ricky eased down on the Camaro’s brakes, leaving a nice distance between the two of them, and he eventually came to a full stop just as Larrabee plowed the Civic off the road and straight into a tree.
Ricky stared at the scene, dumbstruck. On the radio, a Metallica song came on. Ricky quickly switched it off, popped open the driver’s door, and climbed out of the Camaro.
The air smelled of gasoline and scorched rubber. Steam billowed out from beneath the Civic’s hood, which, from where Ricky stood, appeared to be wedged against the trunk of a thick spruce. The taillights looked like beacons on a sinking ship.
Ricky flicked his cigarette into the woods and slowly approached the wreck. By no means did this let Larrabee off the hook—not in Ricky’s book—but the suddenness of the whole thing had shuffled the world into a sort of replay mode in which Ricky kept seeing the car swerve and strike the tree over and over again. Trying to catch up to reality was like trying to run through a pool of syrup.
When he reached the rear of the car, Ricky knocked one fist against the Civic’s trunk. He knocked again as he approached the driver’s side of the vehicle, this time on the driver’s side window. The windows were fogged up with condensation and it was difficult to see inside. From what Ricky could make out, it looked like the airbag had been deployed.
A shape moved from within. Ricky hopped back a few steps, suddenly aware of the slimy sheen of sweat that coated his forehead and the palms of his hands. The driver’s door cracked open and Donald Larrabee fell out. Larrabee’s skin was the color of ancient parchment and there was a lightning-bolt gash vertically bisecting his forehead. He crawled, trembling, on his hands and knees away from the car. Through the open door, Ricky could see that the airbag had indeed been activated and that fine, white powder—or possibly smoke—clouded up the whole interior.
Larrabee crawled to Ricky and looked up. There was dislocation and confusion in his eyes. There was something else in there, as well.
Fear, Ricky thought, recognizing it instantly. Absolute fear.
“What…the f*ck…was that?” Donald Larrabee gasped as blood drooled out of his mouth.
“A car accident, you shit heel,” Ricky said…but then he froze as he looked past Larrabee and out onto the road. Something pale and vaguely humanoid stood there, watching him. When it began to creep forward and Ricky registered the unnatural way with which it walked, a cold dread closed around his heart. When moonlight struck the side of the figure’s face and he saw that it was, in fact, a young boy, the realization only heightened his fear. He turned and ran for all he was worth back to the Camaro.
He never paused to look back over his shoulder, even when Donald Larrabee began screaming.
Ricky dove into the Camaro, slammed the door, and cranked the ignition until the engine roared. He jerked the gearshift into reverse and spun the wheel while slamming the accelerator. The car lurched dizzyingly backward until Ricky jammed on the brakes with both feet.
Only then did he pause to glance up at the rearview mirror.
What little he saw would haunt him till his dying day: the pale-skinned child atop Donald Larrabee’s writhing form, pinning him down, down, with brute and unnatural strength, a gout of steaming liquid belching forth from the child’s face and splattering against the back of Larrabee’s head—
Ricky Codger had seen enough. He slammed the car back into Drive, jumped on the accelerator, and got the hell out of Dodge.
3
As a strong wind blew hard against the house, old Godfrey Hogarth awoke from some disremembered nightmare that had left him covered in perspiration. He crept slowly out of bed, his heart racing and his skin seeming to tingle. Around him, the house creaked and moaned in the wind, and it was like walking through the belly of an old whaling ship. Hogarth went directly to the bathroom and, without turning on the light, pulled on the faucet. Beneath a cool stream, he washed first his hands then his face and, lastly, the nape of his neck. He remained standing there at the sink in the dark, the water still running, for some time; time enough for his heartbeat to regain its regular syncopation and for his nerves to calm.
Before going back to bed, he paused before the tiny octagonal window in the hall that looked out upon the cold blue curl of asphalt that was Trestle Road. In the moonlight, the asphalt looked like polished steel.
Something’s fixing to happen, sure as I’m standing here breathing, he thought then, feeling the creeps overtake him all over again. He was an old man and possessed an intuition about certain things, much as infants know when they’re hungry and mothers know how to provide the milk. Something bad.
Like an electrical current, it radiated through the marrow of his bones.
4
His mother’s pointy foot poked him awake. Dwight stirred and blinked open his eyes. He’d fallen asleep again in front of the television in the living room—some black-and-white horror movie playing on the public access channel out of Pittsburgh—and was temporarily disoriented. His mother’s tired face hung above him like the disapproving face of God.